


we'll be fine, i'm sure

by xoxogossipwolf



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Gen, Recovery, Relapse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:30:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5230457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xoxogossipwolf/pseuds/xoxogossipwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's relapse and the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll be fine, i'm sure

**Author's Note:**

> i've wanted to write this for months, but didn't really know if i could do it justice. the third season finale killed me, and this has been brewing in my head since then.

The first day after is always the hardest, actually that's not an entirely accurate time-frame. The first ten to twenty hours are always the hardest, Joan knows this, has known it for almost two decades, has seen addicts from her ER rotations. Has seen them go through withdrawal, leave, and come back months later strung out or dead. 

Everyone is different, logically she knows Sherlock's body is just like most, even if his mind is much sharper. Still, a tiny piece of her expected Sherlock to be breezing through withdrawal, acting his usual self. She knows this is a stupid thing to think, she does so anyway. 

Sherlock is no different.

He vomits, a lot, heaving until she knows his abdominal muscles must be cramping from the effort of his heaves. After a while he's finished, head lying on the dirty toilet bowl, too messed up to care. She sits beside him, rubbing his back and coaxing water down his throat. He looks at her, ragged and so very sad. "Nothing that happened was your fault." She tells him, he doesn't manage to even give her a scathing look. 

She tucks him in on the couch, she knows it is crucial to keep his body temperature up. His nose is running and she places a box of soft tissues beside him, then curls up in the chair and just watches him, until his eyes slip closed. 

When she wakes from her doze Sherlock is not on the couch and a hot slice of panic courses through her. "Sherlock!" She yells, running into the kitchen, then up the stairs when she doesn't find him there. He is not in his room, so she looks in hers.  
He's curled on her bed, body racking with shivers. She puts another blanket atop of him, then lies beside him.

"I'm dying." He croaks. "You're not." She tells him, because its true. He's got color in his cheeks, and his forehead isn't even all that warm anymore. He falls asleep again, she doesn't. She watches him for an hour, then gets up silently and dresses in running gear. 

She runs for an hour, her anxiety and sadness giving her a brief reprieve. 

When she returns to the brownstone Sherlock is still sleeping, twisting and turning on her bed, sweat beading his forehead, covers twisted around his body.

She showers, letting the water ease her weary bones and achy muscles. She allows herself to finally cry, letting the hot tears mingle with the cooling water. 

Afterwards, she goes to check on Sherlock. She finds him staring out her window. "I'm going to make us some tea." She tells him, he doesn't reply.

She is busying herself with the kettle, her phone rings. The caller ID lets her know its Marcus. She doesn't hesistate in answering. "Hey." She says. The line is silent for a moment. Marcus clears his throat. "How's our boy doing?" 

"As well as can be expected." Joan tells him, putting honey in her tea. "How are you?" This question floors Joan, and touches her. "I'm okay." She can't tell if that's true, she's been through this before, but Sherlock is different. She hopes. "You sure?" Marcus asks her, concern making his voice soft. "I don't know." She tells him honestly. The line is quiet for a second. "I'll drop by after work." Joan smiles a tiny, sad smile. "Okay." She tells him, they both hang up.

"Marcus is coming by later." She tells Sherlock as she hands him his mug. His hand is shaking. "I don't want him to see me like this." Sherlock says, and it is so soft and sad. "Okay." Joan tells him. "I'll keep him downstairs." Sherlock doesn't respond. 

She drinks from her mug, watching the snow fall out the window, it makes her sad, almost unbearably sad. She drinks her tea. Sherlock gives a soft snore, she takes the untouched tea from his hand and sets it on her night table, stretches out on her bed, and sleeps. 

The doorbell wakes her up. 

She doesn't see Sherlock in her room, this causes only a slight panic in her. She sees a small piece of paper on the chair beside her bed. She picks it up, one word is scrawled on it. 

Roof. 

This causes a more profound panic. She rushes up there, he is sitting, not standing near the edge, he is just watching his bees. She doesn't say anything, just goes back downstairs to let Marcus in.

Marcus is carrying a pizza box. "Figured you can't go wrong with pizza." He tells her, the smile on her face is not forced. 

"Where is he?" Marcus asks, putting two slices on a plate and hands it to her. "Roof." She tells him. His head snaps up, a flicker of panic in his eyes. "He's watching the bees, he isn't suicidal." He nods, then sits. "How you doing?" He takes a bite, sauce on his chin. She doesn't hesitate before wiping it off with her finger. 

"The same. Worried, sad, angry. Fine." She tells him. "He don't want visitors I'm guessing?" Marcus asks. She shakes her head. "He's embarrassed and angry with himself." Marcus nods. "Okay." They eat some more. "How's work?" She asks. "Nothing major, mostly paperwork. No new case." The silence is comfortable.

They sit on the couch, blanket draped over their legs. Marcus is telling her about the time he dropped an ice cream cone and cried for five minutes. "I was a big crier as a kid, still am. I'll see a dog on the street and tear up. Not even a stray or anything. Just a cute dog." Joan laughs, and feels some of the tension bleeding out of her. 

"I didn't want to end up on the streets, like Andre. So I joined the academy. I felt like I could do some good, you know? Little kid with some big dreams. Didn't exactly work out that way. But I like to think I do my part." Joan smiles, and doesn't say anything. She isn't sure he expects her to.

There is a bang as the roof door shuts, Marcus jumps slightly. They both look to the stairs, Sherlock's is at the top, he's trembling. From cold or cravings, Joan doesn't know. Probably both. His eyes are wide, and Joan is reminded of the time a deer jumped in front of her car, the split second before she slammed her brakes. How wide and scared the deer's eyes were. 

"Detective Bell." Sherlock says, curt and clipped. "Hey, buddy." Marcus says, casual as all get out, Sherlock's shoulders don't relax. "I have business upstairs." Sherlock says, then leaves as quickly as he came. "He do that cause of me?" Marcus asks, Joan knows he knows the answer. "More like he's embarrassed. Of himself. He respects you." Marcus nods. "I should probably get going anyway. Don't want to keep him up there all night. See you later, Joan." Marcus kisses Joan's cheek, then departs.

"Sherlock?" Joan asks, as she holds the door open with her hip, shivering. Sherlock is staring at the skyline. He doesn't respond. She walks over to him. Sets the paper plate in his hand. Places the mug of tea on the ground. "Eat, if you can. Or just drink the tea. I'm going to bed, don't stay up here too long, you'll catch your death." Joan departs, taking one last look at him.

Joan is still awake when she hears Sherlock pad down the stairs, he stops at her door. "Can I lie with you?" He sounds nervous. "Yes." She tells him without hesitation. To deny him comfort at this time would be cruel. He kicks his shoes off, then curls up beside her. She takes his hand. "You're freezing." She tells him, he lets out a soft snore in response. Joan closes her eyes.

There is light in her eyes when she wakes up, Sherlock is missing. She feels only a flutter of panic, goes to pour herself some coffee before checking up on the roof for him. To her utter surprise he is in the kitchen, drinking tea, ginger by the smell and color, and eating corn flakes. "Morning, Watson." He says. He sounds so much like Sherlock before his relapse that her stomach clenches, she forces herself to breathe. He is still the same person, she tells herself. To think otherwise would be foolish, she has training, she knows. "Good morning, how are you feeling?" 

He doesn't answer, just crunches his cereal. "Is your stomach alright? I can run to the pharmacy if you need anything for your nausea." Sherlock walks to the sinks, rinses his bowl and spoon. "I am alright, thank you."

He is holding his mug with both hands, looking small. He clears his throat again. "I am sorry. For all the pain and suffering I have caused you." His voice breaks a bit at the end there. "I understand if you would like to leave. I would be delighted should you choose to remain here. Please do not feel obligated to stay." Sherlock's sentences are clipped, anxiety and regret coloring his voice. 

"I'm your friend, Sherlock. Your partner, I'm not going to leave because of a....snag." Sherlock looks tentatively pleased. "Thank you, Watson. For everything you have done for me." Sherlock places a kiss on her forehead before leaving the room. Joan feels a blossom of warmth spread through her, the tightness in her chest loosening. They're going to be okay, she thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for making it all the way to the end!!! love and criticism is always appreciated


End file.
